


The Princess Diaries

by thisgirlnani



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Royalty, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-24 03:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15621684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisgirlnani/pseuds/thisgirlnani
Summary: When King Robb Stark abdicates the throne, he leaves his throne to his sister, Sansa Stark. However, by Winterfell law, a woman cannot ascend the throne without being married and so Parliament gives Sansa Stark a month to find a husband or else her family forfeits the throne.Their neighbors down South, at the Kingdom of Dragonstone, seek to take advantage of this opportunity. And so, the bastard son of King Rhaegar Targaryen stakes a claim on the throne, intent on preventing Sansa Stark from getting married so that he can ascend the throne himself.OR the Princess Diaries 2! Jonsa AU that no one asked for, but y’all are getting it.





	1. This is My Time

PROLOGUE (JON)

“You will be going to Winterfell.”

Jon blinks twice, unsure if he’s heard his father correctly. King Rhaegar rarely summons his bastard son for a private meeting, let alone have _good news_ for him. “Winterfell?” Jon repeats, dumbfounded. The neighboring kingdom up North is not unfamiliar to Jon, but he has never been sent there on official royal duty.

Rhaegar nods. “I’ve already made the arrangements, and they’re expecting you. The plane leaves this evening.”

Though Jon has always welcomed the opportunity to leave the oppressive heat of the South, the abruptness of the King’s plans is a bit unnerving. “What need is there for me, up North?” Jon asks, managing a polite nod.

The King smiles, another unsettling sign. “An opportunity for our House, boy. King Robb has abdicated the throne. The fool’s marrying some commoner girl and renouncing his royal duties.”

Jon’s brow furrows at the news. He knows very well of his father’s desire to unite the North and the South, together. His father has schemed a dozen schemes, too make this all possible, but the Starks up North have always held steady. “But, King Robb has other siblings, does he not? The crown would go to them-”

“Yes,” Rhaegar waves a hand, dismissively. “Next-in-line, however, is a _girl_. Sansa.  And according to their laws, the girl cannot ascend the throne unmarried. The North’s parliament has given the girl a month to find a husband, or the family risks forfeiting the crown.”

“I still fail to see how I play into this scheme of yours.” Jon rocks on the back of his heels, uneasily.

“If Sansa fails to garner a husband, Parliament won’t play musical chairs with all of her siblings. With King Robb’s sudden abdication, I’m sure their trust has grown quite thin with that family. That’s where you come in, boy.” Rhaegar’s tone drops. “You are part wolf, after all.”

Jon’s head jerks up. “No.” He grinds out, tersely. “I am a dragon of House Targaryen.” The words leave his mouth, hollow-sounding, though.

 _A wolf among dragons_. It’s what they’ve all whispered since Jon was a little boy, roaming around the dreary halls of Dragonstone. His mother, who died giving birth to him, was a cousin of Eddard Stark, King Robb’s father.

And as much as Jon had always wanted to deny the truth of his Northern heritage, his reflection wouldn’t let him forget it. He’d wept about it to Elia, when he was four or five-years old, after Rhaegar had coldly turned him away, when Jon had foolishly asked him to play.

“ _He’d like me better if I looked like Aegon.”_

Elia had shushed him, and kissed his tear-streaked cheeks, sweetly. “ _You carry your mother’s love and looks with you. A gift she bestowed you, since she could not be with you.”_ Only Elia, a woman of infinite kindness could comfort the son of her husband’s mistress as a true mother would.

“You look every inch a Northerner.” Rhaegar disrupts Jon’s memories. “But, in this case, it will be helpful. When they see a prince, who looks like one of them, they’ll accept you easily. Once, you ensure Sansa Stark doesn’t marry, you can take the throne, as the next eligible outside of the direct family.”

 _He means for me to sabotage Sansa Stark at Winterfell’s courts_. Jon fights the urge to grimace openly in front of his father. There is not a cunning or clever bone within his body. Rather than juggle veiled niceties in front of countless lords and ladies, Jon would much rather have a bow and arrow in hand or ride in the saddle of a horse. But the look in Rhaegar's eyes, tells him, he doesn’t care much about what Jon can or can’t do, just that he expects nothing less than success.

“If you do this, boy, you’ll be a true Targaryen, no longer a bastard, but a _king_. We’ll be able to unite the North and South as my father and his father, always wanted.” Rhaegar’s smile widens, gleaming in the low light of the throne room.

 _A king._ Jon’s never wished to wear a crown. But, he’s also never wanted to be a bastard.

“When does the plane leave?” Jon asks.

* * *

Rhaenys and Aegon see him off in the evening, much to his surprise. Though the three of them have always been close, their new responsibilities given to them as they’ve grown older has made time together, rare.

“The next time we see you, you might be a king.” Aegon grins, clapping Jon on the back.

“ _Might_ ,” Rhaenys frowns, her brown eyes, troubled. “No offense, brother.” She smiles at Jon. “Father’s had many schemes, similar to this one, and they rarely pan out. No matter  _who_ he sends. I fear he’s sending you out, knowing it will fail.”

Aegon glares at Rhaenys, “You promised to be nice.” He mutters under his breath, running a hand through his platinum hair.

Jon shrugs, unbothered. Rhaenys only ever speaks her mind. The thought that Rhaegar would send Jon on a fool’s mission, had crossed his mind. It wouldn’t be beneath his father to do so. But, it doesn’t diminish Jon’s eagerness to escape the South and his father for a bit of time.

 _No longer a bastard, but a king._ Rhaegar’s words echo around Jon’s mind, and though he knows there’s only a slight chance the plan could come to fruition, a part of him, bastard and base, burns for the chance to elevate himself, to rise above the snide whispers that have troubled him since childhood.

“I’ll do what I can.” Jon promises, solemnly. He pulls both of them in for a brief hug, causing Aegon to groan dramatically, but Rhaenys shuts him up with a pinch to his cheek. “Take care of Elia.” He asks of them.

“Mother will be fine.” Rhaenys smiles. “Take care of yourself, up North. You always know how to make your older sister worry.”

Jon bids them both a final goodbye before boarding the private plane, Rhaegar has issued. The plane takes off smoothly, and Jon gazes out the window, till he can only make out a speck of black and blonde, his two siblings, fading away in the distance.

 

PART I (SANSA)

A luxurious ball, held in her honor, with dozens of men eager to catch her eye and dance with her. If she’d been twelve, this would have been everything she would have wanted and more, but now at twenty years, far and away from the romantic and dreamy girl she used to be, Sansa wants nothing more than to loosen her tight gown and go to sleep.

Still, she is nothing, but a creature of duty, and so she maintains the smile on her face, no matter how much it might hurt her cheeks.

 _Stupid, stupid Robb_. She fumes, inwardly, while greeting another Lord and purring demurely when he kisses her hand.

Sansa tries to remind herself that Robb is happier now, able to marry the love of his life, Miss Jeyne Westerling. And in truth, she knows that she will be a great Queen. She’s been groomed to be a fine lady since, age 3, after all.

But, damned, if she has to have a husband, in order to make it all so, because of some misogynistic law. It’s a ridiculous law in this day and age, but one she has to abide by nonetheless. For if she fails to, some Southern prince who claims Stark ancestry will swoop in and take their crown. To make matters worse, her mother has invited the prince to stay at Winterfell, and she’s forced to meet him tomorrow. Anger flares within Sansa, just at the thought of it, but she forces herself to focus on the potential suitors tonight.

Lord Cley Cerywn was a poor conversationalist. Sansa listened to him speak for barely five minutes, before deciding his droll monotone, was not one she could stand to hear for the rest of her life.

Lord Harry Hardyng was admittedly, very good-looking, but his ego was unbearably large, regaling her with tales of his war feats throughout their entire dance together. She also swore she saw him check his reflection in the dinnerware, during the feast.

He was no match for Lord Joffrey Baratheon, though in terms of horridness. The pinched-faced nobleman, who hailed from Castle Rock had no manners to speak of, and their dance together consisted of thinly veiled insults at her brother while she tried her hardest not to throttle him.

This time, however, it is Lord Daryn Hornwood who asks for a dance, to which she reluctantly accepts. Sansa tries her best to keep an open-mind, during their dance. Lord Daryn isn’t ugly, nor has he said anything mean-spirited, but there’s nothing about him that’s terribly exciting either. _You don’t need excitement,_ she reprimands herself. _You just need a husband. One that won’t get in the way of your ruling and respect you as his wife and queen._

Still, she is grateful for when the dance is over. She politely claps after the music stops, as is customary, and thanks Lord Daryn for his time.

“Could I have the next dance, Princess Sansa?”

Sansa turns, meaning entirely to reject the offer, exhausted and hungry. She stops short, however, when she sees who’s asked for the dance. The man is surely a Northerner with sharp, grey eyes and dark curls, but she’s studied all the vassal men and the liege lords of the North, and this man doesn’t appear to be one of them. After all, she would remember a face like his. He’s undeniably handsome, with a strong jaw-line and a shy smile.

She almost forgets to respond but remembers her manners. “Of course, Lord—"

“-Jon.” He fills in. The strings start up for the next song, and his left-hand raises, expectantly. Sansa takes his hand in her right and then her left-hand rests on his broad shoulder. Sansa warms a bit, as she feels his fingers brush against the small of her back.

“You’ll forgive me, Princess.” He apologizes, after a moment. “I’ve been told on many occasions that my dancing is quite poor.”

“Your dancing is fine.” She assures him, with a smile. He isn’t the most graceful dancer, just a bit stiff, but he keeps the rhythm well and he follows her direction, smoothly. “Tell me, nobody’s been rude enough to comment on your skills, whilst mid-dance. I wait at least till the end of the dance to give my partner feedback.”

Lord Jon chuckles at her jest. “Only my sister. She’s the one who insisted on teaching me.”

“I taught my brothers how to dance as well. I’d bet your sister is a far more patient teacher than me.” Sansa laughs. “I don’t believe I caught the name of your House, Lord Jon.”

Under her touch, she feels him tense. His dark eyes flicker from her gaze, to the ground. “Unfortunately, I’m just a bastard son, Princess.” He murmurs, a tinge of pink to his cheeks.

Sansa flushes, embarrassed. “ _Oh_.” She feels terrible for pushing the subject. “I apologize, I did not mean to put you on the spot like that.”

“It’s alright.” Jon says, with a small shrug of his shoulder. “I thought I might ask the Princess for a dance, if I cannot ask for her hand.”

“I am glad you did, then.” Sansa smiles. She feels her cheeks warm, when he returns her smile, liking the way his eyes crinkle a bit at the corners. _Truly, just her luck_ , _to finally feel attracted to someone tonight, and then have him be a bastard, ineligible for her hand._ Another stupid law. Funny how Sansa feels more and more inclined to burn the constitution as the night goes on.

“It must be strange, knowing the person you will spend the rest of your life with, is somewhere in this room, Princess.”

Sansa resists the urge to scoff, but she doesn’t hide her expression of disdain. There is something about Jon, that feels as though she doesn’t have to maintain her mask of social graces, perhaps it is because he has no title, and so she doesn’t feel compelled to put on the usual airs. “It’s more frightening.”  She says, honestly. “You should try having to gauge a potential life-partner through a 3-minute dance. I have to keep them all straight in my hand, so I can rank them in comparison to the others.”

Jon looks at her, thoughtfully. “So, say I wasn’t a bastard, then. Where would I rank, out of all your dance partners, tonight?”

“In terms of dancing ability, not anywhere at the top.” Sansa teases, feeling bold. “But, I do think if we disregard that, you’d be near the top.”

“Near the top,” Jon echoes, with an arched brow. “I’m honored.”

Their strings start to slow, signaling the end of the song, and Jon draws away, still holding her right-hand, though. He kisses her hand, gently, and Sansa has to force herself to not fixate on the curve of his lips. “Thank you, for the dance, Princess.”

Her stomach flutters, “I enjoyed it. If you are around court, don’t be a stranger.” She smiles.

“Of course,” He inclines his head, respectfully.

“Princess Sansa!” Already, another Lord has descended upon her, to ask for the next dance. She turns to greet the Lord politely, and when she gazes back, to see if Jon is still there, he has already disappeared, much to her disappointment.

* * *

The next day, Sansa is to meet the Southern prince.

While her personal stylist selects a dress and fusses with her hair, she reports to Sansa that the prince arrived last night and caused quite the stir among the servants with his good looks. It’s of no matter to Sansa, however, as she tries her best to tune out the idle gossip. The sooner the prince is gone, the better.

She all but drags herself downstairs, dreading the meeting entirely.

Her mother, Catelyn Stark, is already there in the foyer of the East Wing, standing regal in a navy-blue dress with silver detailing. She tuts, seeing Sansa’s dreary expression. “Chin up, dear. We must be grace itself, when meeting Prince Jaehaerys. You do look beautiful, by the way. I always loved green on you.” Her mother nears, smoothing out a wrinkle in her off-the-shoulder dress.

“Thank you.” Sansa murmurs. “Did you enjoy last night?”

“It was quite alright.” Catelyn hums. “I was concerned about you, mostly. I noticed you danced with the Hardyng boy quite a few times.”

“Because he asked.” Sansa replies, “And I was impressed that he managed to dance so well, without tripping over his ego.” She hears a maid stifle a giggle, but Sansa is past the point of caring.

Catelyn frowns. “Well, was there anybody you liked, dear?”

Sansa can’t help but think only of Jon. Though in the past, she dreamt of princes with fair hair (quite like Harry Hardyng), she found herself thinking only of dark curls and grey eyes, before she went to sleep. _Stupid, stupid_. Nothing good would come of day-dreaming about a bastard son. “No,” She replies faintly. “We may as well hand over the crown to Prince Targaryen, when he gets here. A welcoming gift.” Her lips quirk up in a sardonic smirk.

“Don’t say such things, Sansa.” Catelyn reprimands. “There must always-“

“-be a Stark in Winterfell.” She finishes, out of reflex. “I know. I just can’t believe that you offered for him to stay, after King Rhaegar dared stake a claim to the throne.” Her nose wrinkles. “The king must think me an ugly hag, unable to secure a husband within a month’s time.”

Her mother rubs her back, comfortingly. “Enemies are better kept close, than far away. I’d rather have the boy under our roof, to keep an eye on him, directly.”

As if on cue, an assistant, scurries in from the side-door, breathless. “Ma’am. Princess. The Targaryen Prince is here. Shall we proceed?”

Catelyn Stark nods, “Of course. Send him right in.”

The assistant leaves, just as quickly as she entered, off to do as told.

“Deep breaths, Sansa. One meeting with the prince and then you can focus on finding a suitable husband.” Catelyn reassures her, with a quick squeeze of her hand.

“ _Presenting, the esteemed Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen.”_ There’s a click at the double-doors, before they swing open to reveal the Southern prince.

Only it isn’t the Southern prince. It’s _Jon_. The same dark curls, grey eyes and all.

Sansa’s mouth falls open, trying to search him for some sort of explanation, but she finds none, as he only gazes at her, respectfully bowing his head as protocol dictates.

When Sansa fails to follow suit, Catelyn Stark clears her throat, uncomfortably, and proceeds to greet the prince.

“Prince Jaehaerys. It is lovely to finally meet you.” Catelyn smiles warmly, always the picture of hospitality.

“Likewise, Queen Mother.” His low voice, rumbles and he meets her handshake, firmly. “I’m grateful for you, allowing me to stay in the castle.”

“Of course. You do have Stark blood, so we hope you take this chance to explore the North. It is quite different from Dragonstone, after all.”

Sansa can barely listen to their idle conversation, nearly ready to explode in a mess of anger and humiliation. How _dare_ he lie to her about his identity during their dance? For god’s sake, she thinks back mortified, she’d _flirted_ with him. She flirted with the very person trying to steal her crown! He must have had quite the laugh at her expense, after their dance, thinking her stupid and naïve.

Sansa sucks in a quick breath and smothers the urge to launch herself at him. “Prince _Jaehaerys._ ” Sansa spits out. Catelyn looks over, appalled at her tone. He only nods at her greeting. “You did introduce yourself as Jon, to me, last night. Do you make it a habit of lying to women, when you first meet them?”

“Sansa!”

“It’s quite alright, Queen Mother.” Jon smiles, briefly, before turning to her. “I apologize if you believe I mis-led you, Princess. I did say I was a bastard son. Jon was the name my mother wished to name me, and I’ve gone by it all my life.”

“ _If I believe you’ve mis-led me_ -“ Sansa splutters, trying to regain some form of composure, though thoroughly failing. “Why you-how _dare_ you!” She strides over to him, her face, no doubt splotchy with anger. Without thinking she brings up her left leg, heel and all, and stomps _hard_ on his foot.

She turns on her heel, eager to get away from him.  And as she leaves, she can already hear her mother apologizing profusely, calling for some ice.

“An accident, I’m sure.” She hears Jon grimace out, before Sansa slams the door shut.


	2. Trouble

PART II (JON)

He hadn’t meant to lie.

Truly, he had thought she would know who he was. Maybe seen a picture or two in passing, enough to identify his face as the bastard prince of Dragonstone. But, when he had boldly asked for a dance, half-expecting a harsh rebuke, she had only sweetly smiled and asked for his name. He hadn’t the heart to spoil the moment and tell the full truth.

She  _ is _ devastatingly pretty, Jon thinks, recalling their dance, and how close they came together, so close, he’d been able to identify notes of lavender and lemon in her perfume. Nothing would match her beauty, except for her temper, Jon supposes. His foot still throbs in pain as evidence of that.

_ Sansa Stark _ . Just an obstacle with a pretty face.  _ The goal is the crown,  _ he reminds himself,  _ to be a bastard no longer _ .  _ To succeed the task given to him by his father.  _ For if Sansa marries, he fails.

As of now, she has yet to favor any suitor in particular, but in the morning, he saw her breakfast with Lord Karstark, and in the afternoon, she is meant to stroll the gardens with Lord Willas Tyrell, according to one of the maids. She’s been doing this for a few days, now, meeting with various lords for a brief engagement, no doubt carefully making her choice in husband.

He decides to bide his time in the meanwhile, spending time in the archery fields of Winterfell. In fact, any chance he can get, he is outdoors, savoring the cool air of the North. He wonders distantly, mid-practice, if his late mother preferred the North to the South, as he does.

“So, you’re the dragon prince.”

The sudden interruption, breaks his focus, and when he releases the arrow, it sharply veers to the left of the target. Jon grumbles under his breath, before facing the source of his distraction.

A petite girl, with short brown hair and ripped jeans, stands there, with her hands on her hip. “The dragon prince is what they call my brother, Aegon. I usually am called the bastard prince.” Jon retorts. “And who are you?”

“Arya Stark.” She replies back, equally sharp. Her stance adjusts into one of defensiveness, with her arms crossed.

Jon takes another look at the girl, blinking in surprise. “ _ Princess _ Arya, I apologize for not recognizing you.” He would never have guessed it, for her and her sister are like day and night. It reminds him of Aegon and Rhaenys a bit.

“Arya, is fine.” She frowns at his usage of her title. Jon gathers quickly, she is vastly different in not only physical traits, but also in personality to Sansa.

“Then call me Jon.” He says, gently placing the bow on the ground. Anytime he’s been called Prince Jaehaerys here, he’s been quick to correct them. Not even Rhaegar refers to him as Jaehaerys, anymore. “I’m surprised you’re speaking to me.” One would think, a Stark would steer clear of Jon, given his entire reason for being at Winterfell.

“I was curious about you.” Arya shrugs. “Sansa says I shouldn’t speak to you, but I hardly listen to her. I had to see who compelled my prim and proper sister to abandon all her manners.”

Jon chuckles. “I am not quite so interesting, unfortunately. But, your sister was well in her rights, I suppose. I only wish she hadn’t been wearing heels.”

Arya’s lips twitch. “How unlucky for you.” She settles into silence, and there’s a heavy pause as she merely stares at him, pensively.

Jon shifts uncomfortably, wondering if there’s some leftover jam on his chin from breakfast, or if he’s forgotten to tuck in his shirt properly. “Was there something you wanted to ask of me?” he asks, uncertainly.

“I saw you earlier,” Arya hedges, her fingers pulling at the frayed holes in her jeans. “I just thought--,” she juts out her chin, stubbornly, “We look quite a bit alike. Bran said we did, but it’s weirder in person, seeing you now.”

Jon’s brows raise quite high at her statement. He studies her, closer now, really seeing her. It startles him, when he does find similarities. Arya’s grey eyes, her long face, dark hair, it’s all the  _ Northern  _ look,  _ his  _ look. She could pass easily as his sibling.

“No one in my family looks like me. I used to look like my dad, before he died, I mean.” She grimaces. “Robb, Sansa, Rickon, and Bran. They’ve all got the Tully look about them. Red hair and stupidly pretty blue eyes.”

He softens, knowing full well what she feels. “I guess we have that in common.” He gives her a small smile. “Don’t you think you’re special in a way?”

“How so?”

“Well, you’re the only child that takes after your father. In a way, he left you with something, that he didn’t give anybody else.”

Arya slowly smiles at his words. “I never thought about it that way. I suppose, we’re both special then. Your mother left you her looks.”

Jon nods. “She looked like a proper Northerner. I have picture of her, but never really knew what she was like. She died when I was born.”

Her face falls, “Oh, that’s terrible. My father knew your mother, as they grew up together. He said once or twice, that I reminded him of her.”

That surprises Jon, and he can’t help but want to know more. “Really?”

“Yup.” Arya nods solemnly. “She preferred riding horses and archery to being in court. Father used to brag about my archery skills to the visiting Lords. He said she and I both had wolf’s blood.” Arya’s eyes gleamed, proudly. “So maybe you have wolf’s blood too, Jon.”

Jon stills, taking in Arya’s words.  _ Wolf’s blood. No, that wasn’t what he wanted. It was the dragon’s fire he sought out.  _ “Maybe,” Jon decides to say, “Perhaps we should put your wolf’s blood to the test. We’ll see who the better archer is, between the two of us.”

He picks up the bow and offers it to her. Arya grins widely, taking it confidently, while plucking an arrow from the container. “You’ll be sorry you even asked, Jon Targaryen.”

* * *

PART II (SANSA)

Sansa decides, it will be Lord Willas Tyrell.

It’s only their second meeting, but given the circumstances, time is of the essence. He is  _ mostly  _ everything she was looking for in a potential husband. The eldest son of the prominent Tyrell family, he is educated and well-mannered. Willas hadn’t danced with her during her ball, since an accident when he’d been younger, left him with a bad leg. But he had approached her with a kind smile and they had talked quite amicably about his hobby of breeding hawks and the beauty of Highgarden.

Now, as they stroll around the gardens of Winterfell, with arms linked, she tries to picture their life together. Willas would be a good husband, she assures herself. He has made a point to ask about her own hobbies, and what she would want to do as the next Queen of Winterfell. He would allow her to truly rule as an independent queen. It would be a good match.

She says as much to him.

“Truly?” He asks, with eyes wide. “I would think your Highness would require more time to consider things. Surely there are other suitors you would like to meet with.”

“Not really.” Sansa says, plainly. “I’ve met with plenty and danced with a dozen more. Since Parliament demands I get married, then I would prefer it to be to you.” She gazes at him. “You would not mind, would you?”

“Mind?” He laughs, merrily. “Princess Sansa, it should me be asking that.”

“I am serious.” She insists. “This won’t be a marriage based on love. Could you do that?”

Willas only shrugs. “We could grow to love each other.”

“Perhaps.” Sansa says, uncertainly.   _ Love,  _ a concept she’d dreamt of, but knew, deep down, when Robb had abdicated, there would be no such thing for her. Her priority now, was duty. Duty to her nation, duty to the Stark legacy. For if she failed--

“Isn’t that the Princess Arya?” Willas broke into her thoughts and gestured ahead.

Sure enough, when Sansa looked, her sister was there, but she wasn’t alone. Every muscle in Sansa’s body tensed as she easily made out Prince Jon, chuckling beside her sister.

_ What in seven hells.  _  Sansa resists the urge to sprint over and snatch Arya away, demanding he stay away from her family. But, she’d already abandoned propriety in front of him, humiliating herself, and she wasn’t about to do that again.

Instead, she tightens her hold on Lord Tyrell’s arm, and tries to put her best smile forward.

“Arya, Prince Jon.” Sansa greets politely, making sure to bow her head. Jon does the same, a wry look upon his face. He’s dressed down, today, in dark jeans and a long-sleeved, gray T-shirt. Sansa tugs at the hem of her skirt, feeling a bit overdressed in contrast to her sister and Jon. “This is Lord Willas Tyrell.”

Lord Willas cannot mask his surprise as he hears Jon’s name and title. “Ah, Your Highness! I had heard you were visiting Winterfell. Please call me Willas.”

“Willas.” Jon nods. “Pleasure.” His gaze flits over to Sansa, “I apologize for disturbing the two of you.”

“It’s no problem-“

“ _ Sansa,” _ Her sister interrupts with a bright smile. “I’ve bested Jon in the archery fields, just now.”

“Prince Jon, Arya.” She corrects, sharply. Though, honestly, she could care less if Arya uses her titles properly. It bothers her more that her sister is  _ willingly _ spending time with the Targaryen Prince and by the looks of it,  _ enjoying herself _ , when she knows what’s at stake for their family.

“I don’t mind, at all, Princess Sansa.” Jon shrugs. “I’ve told her she can call me as such.” Arya looks up at Jon with a pleased smile, and that  _ does it. _

“Yes,” Sansa snaps. “I know how you like introducing yourself without proper titles.” Jon’s jaw tightens, and his grey eyes darken, much to her petty pleasure.

“I did apologize for that, Princess. Perhaps you didn’t hear it, over the sound of you stomping on my feet.”

Sansa flushes, bright red, feeling the heat creep up her neck. Willas only stands to her side, gaping openly at the two of them.

“Lord Tyrell!” Arya exclaims, suddenly, breaking the chilly silence. She throws a wink in Sansa’s direction. “Shall I show you the Godswood of Winterfell? Surely, you’re tired of seeing gardens, I’m sure you have enough of those at home.”

“ _ No _ , Arya,” Sansa shakes her head. “Lord Tyrell and I were just about to-“

“It’s no issue, Princess Sansa.” Willas smiles, speaking quickly. “I’d be honored if the Princess Arya gave me a tour. It does look like you and Prince Jon have some things to hash out.”

“No, I-, we’re not- we’re  _ fine _ !“ Sansa uselessly tries to explain herself, but Arya and Lord Tyrell have already linked arms, and made progress down the winding path towards the Godswood, leaving her alone with Jon Targaryen.

“This is your fault.” Sansa turns, glaring fiercely at him.

“ _ My  _ fault?” He barks out a laugh, crossing his arms. “You’re the one who stomped on me with your big feet.”

“Big feet?” Sansa gasps, outraged at his rudeness. “You  _ danced  _ with my big feet. If anybody was having issues, it was you! You have the gracefulness of a five-year old.” Jon only shrugs, perhaps because he knows there’s only truth in her words. “Besides, you certainly like turning things on me.” She spits back. “Mind you, we wouldn’t be having this conversation, if you’d just properly identified yourself at the ball.”

Jon rolls his eyes and his tone takes on a mocking edge. “Apologies, I usually  _ do  _ make it a point to show the girl I’m dancing with, my family tree. I didn’t lie, I am a bastard son.” He repeats, stubbornly.

“You said you were a bastard. But, I know King Rhaegar legitimized you,  _ Jaehaerys Targaryen. _ ” Sansa says, undeterred. “So, you did lie.”

“If you must be legitimized, you’re a bastard.” Jon says simply. “And name means nothing, when I look like this. Everybody sees me as a bastard.”  _ A Northerner, he means _ . Sansa had mistaken him for one, herself. “That is,” He continues, “Unless I take the throne.”

Sansa narrows her eyes. Winterfell belongs to the Starks, it always has. This man, though part Stark, knows nothing of their ways, their people. And to want to take the throne for such a selfish reason—her blood boils at the very thought. “A crown won’t solve your issues with your father.” She retorts, heatedly, uncaring of the ways his eyes flash. “Who cares if they call you a bastard? You’ve still grown up in a place of privilege. You don’t need to be the king of some foreign land to prove anything to your father.”

“Spoken like a trueborn child.” Jon leans forward with a disparaging scowl. “You could never understand.” He’s too close, now and Sansa finds herself unable to look away from the intensity of his dark gaze.

She wishes she’d never laid eyes on Jon Targaryen, wishes they’d never danced. For as much as she wants to hate him with every fiber of her being, she can’t stop thinking about the sweet smile he’d had when they twirled around the dance floor, together. There must be something wrong with her.

“I don’t have to understand you.” She shoots back, trying hard to bury the memory of their dance. “You might as well start packing your bags, anyway.” Sansa allows herself a smug smile. “I’ll be marrying soon enough.”

Jon cannot hide his surprise, and then realization flickers of her features. “To Lord Tyrell?” He asks, in disbelief. “You’ve met him twice, now, and already you’re smitten. I thought it took more to impress you, Princess.”

“Lord Tyrell is a proper gentleman. You could learn a thing or two from him.” She sniffs.

“He is a gentleman.” Jon agrees. “He knows how to properly greet a Prince, for one. Maybe you could learn something from him too.”

Sansa doesn’t entertain his jab and only crosses her arms. Let him spout whatever nonsense he wishes, for soon he will be gone, she’ll be married to Lord Tyrell and be Queen. “I look forward to seeing you off, Prince Jon. Please let me know when you plan on departing back to Dragonstone.”

Jon’s eyes darken to a stormy grey. “I might have an extended stay, Princess.” He leans in even closer, so that she feels his beard prickle against her ear. “So, don’t hold your breath.”

With that, he strides away, leaving Sansa in the gardens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part two is here!! hope you enjoyed it xx. i guess you could say arya is like lily and willas tyrell is like andrew, but there's not any perfect exact counterparts, but that's the fun of this AU. let me know your thoughts in the comments :)

**Author's Note:**

> ofc you know with netflix releasing princess diaries 2, i imagined jonsa in that universe lol. enjoy jonsa fam!!!


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